


Of Socks and other Temptations

by LadyKeane



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Crossover, Gay Pining (TM), House Party, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Not Actually the Crawley sisters, Sordid poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28443276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKeane/pseuds/LadyKeane
Summary: Good Omens/Jeeves crossover. Crowley has slithered his way into the Drones Club, and is using his connections there to tempt certain valets into committing nefarious acts.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 19
Kudos: 78





	Of Socks and other Temptations

On the whole, the Drones Club suited Crowley quite well.  
  
He'd come upon a clump of members one night at The Mottled Oyster, pelting bread pills at the jazz quartet onstage. The demon's curiosity was piqued. He abandoned his lukewarm pinot noir to follow them out into the street, where they had been disposed of by the club's bouncer.  
  
It turned out that the loafing sons of the landed gentry were extremely easy marks, temptation-wise. After a few rousing words from Crowley, the lads were soon mooning policemen, caterwauling the Eton Boating Song at the top of their lungs, and skinny dipping in the Trafalgar Square fountains. Even after Freddie Widgeon got nicked by one of the irate coppers, the rest of the crew were keen to keep carousing until the sun rose.  
  
They'd all rather casually accepted Crowley's freshly-miracled membership to the club as a matter of course. One night, in between innings of dinner roll cricket, Crowley had overheard Pongo Twistleton and Archie Mulliner discuss the matter.  
  
'I say, whence came that Crowley chap? I can't seem to recall him being at Oxford, or what have you.'  
'That's because he's Irish, you ninny! Didn't his ginger mop tip you off? I think he's the fourth son of the Earl of Kilmorey.'  
'Oh. The sheep-shagger?'  
'No, the other one.'  
'Right ho.'  
Not being the most inquisitive bunch, the other Drones sort of just left it at that.  
  
And of course, given the opulent social circles that the Drones buzzed about in, there were plenty of ripe aristocrats to be picked at, targets for Crowley's own personal brand of perdition. Invites to cotillions and country estates usually turned up a juicy opportunity or two.  
  
One listless and muggy afternoon, as Crowley lay coiled up in a wing chair at the club, he caught the chatter of three Drones who always seemed to be joined at the whatsit: Bingo Little, Tuppy Glossop, and that saucer-eyed, credulous fop, Bertie Wooster. (A favourite mark, Bertie. Could be convinced to swipe toffee from a toddler, if his precious 'Code of the Woosters' demanded it. Crowley enjoyed dreaming up various ethical conundrums that required Bertie to commit all manner of misdemeaours.)  
  
Tuppy was in mid-steam, as the lads collapsed on the sofa near Crowley.  
'...anyway, the girlies in the revue kickline were all pippins! I stood at the stage door all night, trying to hunt one down for an autograph. Think I'll try my luck again, and attend the show tomorrow night.'  
Bertie narrowed his saucer-eyes. 'I'l have you recall, Tuppy, that you are currently affianced to my favourtite cousin Angela. What of your fidelity, eh?'  
Tuppy snorted. 'Lighten up, Wooster. You can come along to watch too, if you're so concerned. How about you, Bingo? Crowley?'  
'Never,' Bingo announced steamily, as if he were turning down a bribe. 'It is beneath me to trail after those scantily clad show-girls. And neither will Bertie.'  
The Wooster nodded pertly. 'A little honour, at last. You could learn from Bingo's example-'  
'-Not while _she_ treads her dainty sylph's feet upon this earth!'  
  
Crowley watched as both Tuppy and Bertie visibly slackened. The demon leant forward - he currently had a bet going with Oofy Prosser about who Bingo's next unlucky _inamorata_ would be.  
'She is a queen, a seraph, a heavenly idol of enlightened womanhood!'  
'Good grief. It's not Lady Florence Craye this time, is it?' Bertie asked.  
Crowley suppressed a shudder. Before he Fell, he'd had one or two unfortunate run-ins with the Seraphim, and in actual fact Lady Florence Craye was quite a close approximation.  
  
Bingo shook his head. 'Dear me, no. My soulmate is the bright and beauteous Lady Sylvia Craven, the suffragette daughter of Lord Garland. I'm heading down to Easeby Hall tomorrow, to woo her at Willoughby Wooster's house party. She said I could bring a chum - the more, the merrier. Bertie, you wouldn't consider coming to help build me up? Put in a good word for me with the tender goddess? Willoughby is your uncle, after all.'  
  
Bertie possessed a somewhat pleasing face, if a little chinless. But the grotesque frown he pulled at this offer could have provided Hieronymus Bosch with enough macabre inspiration for an entire triptych.  
  
'And contend with those ghastly sisters of hers!? I'd rather swallow molten lead! The last time Lady Edwina cornered me, she threatened me with several romantic sonnets. And the prospect of being in the same room with that most auntly harpy, Lady Maria...' Bertie's faced morphed from Bosch to full-on Goya.  
'Please, Bertie? It would be for the sake of true love! And I'll promise to pick up your tab at the club bar for the next three months.'  
  
The Wooster cast his desperate eyes about the room, looking for an out.  
'Only if Crowley comes, too.' Here he grabbed the demon's arm. 'As a social buffer to fend off _les soeurs étranges._ You have such a way of weaseling your way out of tight corners, old boy.'  
Crowley shrugged. 'It's a gift. Alright, count me in.'  
  
'Spiffing! I only hope my new man is up to the trip,' Bertie non-sequitured. 'I've found him rather hopeless. He's been wrinkling my best shirts and servng my tea lukewarm. Always stinks of chewing tobacco, too.'  
'He's Barmy's old valet, yes?' asked Tuppy. 'With the unfortunately heavy footfalls?'  
  
As the others prattled on, Crowley sank back in his chair, and started plotting. That night, he'd originally been hoping to introduce Prince Edward to a particularly seedy American bookie pal of his, but that could wait. He knew there would be quite a few party guests at Easeby that he could target for rather zesty temptation, both above stairs and below. But where to begin?  
Well for starters, he would need to track Oofy Prosser down and Miracle him into believing that Crowley had put his ten quid on Bingo falling for Lady Sylvia (and not Jack Buchanan, as he had wagered).  
  
'Mr Crowley? A note for you, sir, delivered to the door just now.'  
Rogers had shuffled up to the group from the front desk, as he looked warily about for any errantly flung dinner rolls. Crowley plucked the paper from the salver. The moment he beheld the neat, dainty cursive upon it, his Infernal heart gave a little sizzle of delight:  
  
'My dearest Crowley,  
This sultry weather - with its close, stifling air - is proving quite the nuisance, especially inside my little shop. It would esteem me greatly if you would care to partake in a turn about St. James' Park together. Perhaps we may share in the sweet respite of an ice-cream, or else an elderflower squash?  
I shall remain upon my premises this afternoon, where we may rendezvous.  
Your devoted colleague,  
A. Z. Fell.'  
  
As the other drones conducted an extensive forum on the nature of valets, Crowley slipped away.  
  
***  
  
This wasn't a breach of Infernal protocol, Crowley reasoned, as he loped along to the bookshop in Soho. Anything he could do to tempt the angel with pleasures of the flesh - including ice cream and squash - was surely a score for his side. And if the conversation was stimulating, and the company enjoyable... what of it? It wasn't as if he was aiding the angel in any of his Celestial agendas... to be honest, even after all these millenia, Crowley wasn't really sure what those heavenly duties actually _were_ (outside of the odd child-rescue and spot of forgiveness).  
  
There he was, visible through the bookshop window, his soft curls gilded by the afternoon sunlight. A smile of pure sweetness and benefaction graced his map. Crowley's breath did not catch, nor did his pulse race. After smoothing his hair and straightening his collar, he pushed open the shop door.  
But when Crowley saw the reason for the angel's sweet smile, a stab of pure, clean loathing struck him in the gut.  
  
Standing by the counter was the same tall, darkish, respectful Johnnie that had infested the place the last three times Crowley had been here. Aziraphale normally couldn't wait to scoot customers out the door. But the last time this nuisance had been in, the angel had carried on a drawn out conversation with him about some poet chap named Hafez, and had _actually offered him tea.  
_  
Had Crowley been in serpent form, he could have scared the bugger off. (Well, technically he could choose to transform now, but he didn't want Aziraphale to think him churlish.) The best he could do was sort of lurk about one of the dusty corners of the shop, and shoot stink eyes at the back of this cretin's oversized head.  
  
'...I think you'll quite like this one, it's a corker! Penned by a fellow named Philebus. A _nom de plume,_ naturally. There's one poignant little poem, about friends walking together on a long, long night, that quite took me. Only two hundred and fifty copies printed.'  
  
His customer thumbed through the little lavender booklet. Aziraphale waved coyly to his lurking chum. Crowley shook off his fantasies of strangling the interloper and managed a grin.  
'This looks to be quite promising reading, Mr Fell. How much?'  
Aziraphale concluded the transaction (the cad actually bought a book! _The nerve!_ ), and moved to close up the shop.

'How are you handling this dreadful heat, my dear?'  
'You forget, I'm cold blooded.' He pointed out at the street. 'Just how many books has that big berk taken from you?'  
'Crowley. Mr Jeeves is a loyal and valued customer. It is rare, in this vulgar age of Rex West and Rosie M. Banks, to find a soul who can extemporise on the virtues of ancient poetry and philosophy.'  
'And pornography.'  
  
The angel sniffed primly. 'Uranian poetry is an esoteric expression of a classical ideal!'  
'And it's pornography. You're doing work for my side, peddling that smut.'  
'I am not. It is... charitable. I am offering reprieve to those Children of God who have been unfairly persecuted for the way She made them.'  
'Oh yeah, a right saint, you are. Just like Mary Magdalene.'  
  
A haughty little huff ended the debate. Crowley guessed that meant he was Forgiven.   
'Shall we, then?'  
  
***  
  
After the procurement of the requisite ice creams, they ambled along the winding St James' Park pathways, ignoring the glares of a number of expectant ducks.  
  
'Maybe we could escape the London heat, if it's bothering you. Tell Upstairs and Downstairs that there's some cosmic disturbance in Brighton or Cromer, which needs our immediate intervention.'  
Aziraphale sighed. 'Perhaps.'  
'What's got into you? You love the seaside! Last time we went, you interrupted the Punch and Judy show to give the kiddie audience a lecture on the sanctity of marriage. Not to mention the fish and chips...?'  
'Well, it would be nice... I just can't help but worry about poor Mr Jeeves.'  
The sound of that name sent a wave of hot, roiling disgust through Crowley. His ice cream promptly melted away.  
'Again with this Jeeves bloke! What are you, his mum!?'

'The poor thing has recently left his position as valet to Lord Frederick Ranelagh - some terrible business in Monte Carlo left his former master penniless. Mr Jeeves is currently seeking a new position. However, so few openings seem to be up to the required standard, as he puts it.'  
'And what is the required standard?'  
'Well, for one, he's done with working for men of industry. Their changeable fortunes and rough manners do not suit him at all. He is hoping to work for nobility - ideally a young gentleman with a mellow disposition, and some sense of moral propriety... perhaps he could work for me?'  
  
'OVER MY DISCORPORATED BODY... Uh, that is, erm... you're not exactly young and mellow, are you, angel?'  
The side-eye Aziraphale shot him could have liquefied brimstone.  
'Ah... ngk... I mean, I think I know someone who might fit the bill. I heard he's not happy with his current valet.'  
'It's not one of your unruly chums, is it? From that club?'  
'No,' Crowley lied. 'Anyway... leave it with me, I'll see what I can cook up.'  
  
Aziraphale looked a little uneasy. 'You're not going to use any... tricks?'  
'Nah, I'll just make some recommendations. All totally above-board,' Crowley lied again.  
The angel nodded, reassuring himself. 'Alright. As long as you promise to behave. Thank you, dear boy. It is always so heartening to see you aid those in need.'  
He returned his attentions to his ice cream, and Crowley suppressed a sigh.  
  
***  
  
Come Hell or high-water, Crowley was going to get Reginald bloody Jeeves out of the bookshop, back into gainful employment, and as far removed from his angel as possible.  
  
First, the ground-work. That took Crowley all of a few hours. Disguised as a valet, he slipped into the Junior Ganymede club on Curzon street: The primo nest for all sorts of manservants and penguin-suited lackeys. After buying a drink or five for a group of eminent, grey-haired butlers, he got the name of the agency where this Jeeves bloke was registered.  
  
He then oiled his way along to the agency office, still in his valeting togs. He demanded to speak to the head clerk there, and a quick Miracle was all that was needed. The next time Reginald Jeeves was to enquire about any open positions, the only name that would come up would be Bertram Wilberforce Wooster.  
  
Feeling quite chuffed, Crowley rewarded himself with a trip to Savile Row, where he purchased a new silk necktie in a jaunty flaming crimson. He would cut quite a dash at the Easeby party tomorrow night.  
  
***  
  
'Oh _Bertie,_ do you not feel that the works of Thomas Thorne veritably throb with a yearning, unresolved pathos?'  
'Hullo?'  
'Here, let me read to you his epic masterpiece, "Roger and Hermione"...'  
  
Bertie was cornered on a chaise lounge. Lady Edwina somehow managed to remain manacled to his arm, as she extracted the anthology from somewhere upon her person. Even Crowley felt a stab of pity at this. He made a mental note to remove all pockets from ladies' apparel, so as to prevent any such incidents in the future.  
  
At least the silly little dandy would be detained for a while. Bingo, meanwhile, was sulking outside by the fountain, nursing his wounds after being literally laughed out of the house by Lady Sylvia. Good, no one would notice that Crowley himself had slipped away from the party.  
  
Visiting valets would often moonlight as footmen at these shindigs, so a trip to the kitchens was in order. However, as soon as he'd made it downstairs, Crowley was burdened with a salver of cheese and coffee by a flustered cook.  
'Mind you set that down carefully, lad! if I hear of one more broken piece of crockery tonight, I'll be givin' a sound thumpin' to the ass responsible!'  
Terrified, the demon did as he was bid.  
  
He decided that it may be better to pop around the back, to see if any of the staff were sneaking a quick ciggy break in the rear courtyard. _Et volia,_ the smack-talking of a clique of maids and footmen rose on the evening air.  
  
Crowley slithered his way into the mix, lighting up himself. He nodded to a seedy-looking young fellow with large feet, who was chewing tobacco. 'Evenin'.'  
'Nice tie, mate. Better not let the butler see you wearin' that. I heard he once drove a house-maid to tears because the ruffles on her apron weren't perfectly even.'  
'Blimey. So you work here at Easeby, then?'  
'Nah, just up here for the night - I work for the master's nephew, Bertie. That blond boy from the Drones Club.'

Crowley barked out a laugh. 'Good luck to you, mate! I hear they're a wild lot.'  
The fellow spat out his tobacco. 'You don't know the half of it. Bloody idiot's usually hungover or messing about with his pals when he's at home. He once got nicked for stealing a policeman's helmet. Feels like I'm more of a nanny than a manservant.'  
'Sounds tough. I work for old Sir Damian Fyres, myself. Old coot's so senile, he forgets where he is half the time. Once caught him conversing with a granfather clock.' Crowley grinned, bearing his teeth. 'But at least that means I can add to my salary with a few "gifts" here and there.'  
'Eh?'  
'This necktie? It's from Sir Damian's wardrobe. He's "gifted me" his waistcoats, his silverware, his good liquor... and he's never been wise to it!'  
  
The chap looked a tad inspired. 'Cor. Nice one.'  
'Well, us working men have got to get some fringe benefits, eh? Especially if we're working for idiots. I'll bet your Wooster's got plenty of flashy togs. Leather brogues, hats, neckties... nice socks, perhaps?...'  
  
A sheen of hunger had entered the valet's eyes. 'You wouldn't happen to know where Wooster is now?'  
'Last I saw he was in the drawing room, the hostage of Lady Edwina Craven. She was treating him to a taste of her thick anthology.'  
'Right. Thanks for the tip, mate.' And off he slunk.  
  
***  
  
A self-congratulatory brandy was in order. Crowley re-joined the party, partook of a generous snifter-full, and wiled away the night eavesdropping on various strains of gossip. A few hours later, Bertie shuffled his way into the drawing room looking quite put out, holding a pair of yellow socks.  
  
'Bertie, old thing. Who spat in your porridge, then?'  
'It's been quite a night, Crowley, quite a night indeed... I eventually managed to escape upstairs, and went to hide in my room to avoid Lady Edwina. And what do I find? That reprobate valet of mine was trying to pinch my socks!'  
Crowley shook his onion and gave a sympathetic 'tsk.'  
  
'Uncle Willoughby just took the pleasure of boxing him about the ears and turfing him out. Well... I shall have to return to London tomorrow to find a new man. One who can be trusted.'  
'Sounds like a right pickle. But I'm sure it'll be alright. All the better to get rid of this blighter, and who knows, find a chap who is the real tabasco! How about a consolotary brandy, eh?'  
  
Bertie heaved a massive sigh. 'That sounds just the ticket. You know, I've another, possibly stickier sitch to contend with...'  
'Oh? Say on.'  
'As I came down just now, I bumped into Lady Florence Craye on the stairwell. And, I'm not quite sure how it happened, but Crowley... I think I'm engaged to her now!'  
'Rum!'  
'Yes, I shall have a slug of that, too.'  
  
***  
  
A few weeks later found Crowley perched on an armchair in Aziraphale's shop, staring daggers at one Reginald Jeeves.  
  
'Have you any more works by the poet Philebus, Mr Fell? I greatly enjoyed the last volume, and I am most keen to acquaint myself with his _ouvre._ '  
'Of course, Mr Jeeves. One moment, I shall have a look out the back.'  
  
Crowley shadowed the angel's steps. 'What's he doing here again!?'  
'Must you persist with this baffling grudge against him? Mr Jeeves has become quite a delightful acquaintance of mine. We went out for lunch recently. And I feel he now has a very, ah, intimate reason for requiring the outlet that the Uranian poets can provide...'  
The British Isles could have been blasted off the face of the earth, had Crowley not had the restraint to hold back his burst of sick fury at this. He clutched Aziraphale's shoulder.  
'But... but... I'M the one you should be going to lunch with!'  
  
Something entered Aziraphale's eyes, then, something soft and a little heated.  
' _Dear_ _boy_...'  
  
The shop bell jingled, and the angel whipped back out the front, leaving Crowley to simmer by himself.  
'Fancy meeting you here, old fruit! Here to grab a copy of the latest Rex West, are you?'  
'Not exactly sir, but I often enjoy patronising this emporium to partake of its extensive range of rare publications.'  
'Jolly good. Oh, what ho, Crowley old bean!'  
  
Bertie Wooster was standing before the counter, and Reginald Jeeves' eyes were fixed upon him, gleaming softly.  
'This is my new man, don't you know,' he told Aziraphale. 'Absolute godsend if ever there was one. Smart as a whip, and prepares the best little libations this side of the equator!'  
  
'Ah, so this is the famed Mr Wooster. I've heard much about your delightful musical performances, and your popularity at the Drones Club.' Here the angel shot Crowley an 'I'm-not-angry-just-disappointed' glance.  
'My position with Mr Wooster has so far proved most rewarding,' said Jeeves.  
  
Bertie giggled nervously, and the two shared a fleeting, rosy, distinctly Uranian simper. Suddenly Crowley could breathe again.  
  
Once they had been furnished with their respective anthology and potboiler mystery, Jeeves escorted the Wooster out of the shop, gallantly holding the door for his new master.  
Aziraphale gazed after them soppily. 'He's rather sweet for being one of those Drones, isn't he? Oh, I do hope he and Mr Jeeves will find happiness together.'  
  
'Yeah, yeah. Now come on, angel, the Ritz awaits us.' Crowley took his hand, and said angel shone a smile upon his friend.  
'As you wish, my dear.'


End file.
